A Marriage of Convenience
by M0nk3ysRUs
Summary: Fill for the GKM. Brittany Targaryen, manipulated by her brother Sam, reluctantly marries Khal Santana of the Dothraki. She didn't expect to fall in love with her. Warnings: G!peen, non-con, sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, Game of Thrones, or the Song of Ice and Fire series. They belong to Fox, HBO, and George Martin, respectively.

Author's Note: My second foray into g!p. Filled for a prompt on the Glee Kink Meme. I LOVE Game of Thrones, and HBO did a really good job with the first season. My favorite character is, obviously, Daenarys. A friend sent over this prompt, knowing that I was a big fan of the TV show and book series, and I COULD NOT UNSEE Brittany as Daenarys or Santana as Drogo. So we have this. Read, enjoy, and if you like it, let me know what you think.

Some of the dialogue (mostly between Doreah and Daenarys) is taken from the show.

**A Marriage of Convenience**

Brittany despises her wedding day. The sun shines bright, the sky breathes a clean breath across this stretch of the Dothraki Sea, but its beauty does nothing to ease the fog around her heart. Brittany is beautiful, though, even if her beauty is a curse at the moment, clad in Illyrio's fine lilac wedding gown. She glances at her brother.

Samuel Targaryen is the last heir to the dethroned Targaryens, besides herself, and the one who had betrothed her to Khal Santana Lopez, Horse Lord of the Dothraki. All for a throne, and a time, neither of them remember.

"She is a barbarian, of course, but she's only got the finest army this side of the sea." he had said. "And you will be her queen."

And Brittany, as a woman – nay, child still, at sixteen – and thus powerless, was given as wife to the powerful Lord of the Dothraki Sea. She does not want to be queen. She just wants to go home, to Westeros. Sam did too.

"I would let her whole tribe fuck you, all forty thousand men, if that's what it took," he had said, placing a kiss on her forehead. The kiss still burns on her skin.

Brittany sits next to Khal Santana, feeling fear and shock and awe in equal parts, as she observes the wedding reception. Half clothed men and women danced and sang and ate. Sometimes at the same time. A few fornicated openly with each other. A fight breaks out between two warriors vying for the chance to mate with a young Dothraki woman, and they draw their swords and fight to the death.

It was, in no uncertain terms, barbaric.

To Brittany's right, dark eyes are fierce and dancing with amusement as she watches the festivities. Santana's body is small and taut, all muscle and sinew, and the blonde wonders how a tiny woman had managed to triumph over hordes of hulking men. Her dark hair is tied up in its traditional long braid. Brittany remembers what Sam told her, that Dothraki, when defeated in battle, have their braids chopped off as a sign of humiliation. The Khal's braid almost reaches her ankles; she has never been defeated.

Three fossilized dragon's eggs and a stack of books are Brittany's favorite wedding gifts. She's sure they will be her only favorite things for a long time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Her wedding night is not the romantic, sweet one she imagines from her poems.

She lays on a bed of soft pelts, still clad in her beautiful lilac gown, surrounded by glowing candles in the large horsehide tent.

The Khal staggers into the tent, slurring drunk, and settles her dark eyes on the beautiful girl in her bed. Those eyes are black with wine and lust, and Brittany shrinks back, fearful and shy.

"My Lord, I –"

Her words are cut off as Khal Santana quickly removes her clothing. The leather riding shorts drop to the floor, along with her weapon-laden belt. She removes her leather chest binding, nude before Brittany's widening blue eyes.

The exiled princess had heard the stories of the Khal's body, how the Dothraki had welcomed a prophesied god child into their midst. A child blessed with the traits of both man and woman. Seeing it in person was a different story.

Brittany lets out a gasp as the warrior crawls onto the bed, looming over her body. She makes to move away, but the Khal holds her firm. She feels hands under her gown, removing the offending item. Brittany struggles under Santana's grip before she's quickly flipped over, her young body exposed.

Santana mounts her like an animal, aggressive and rough. Tan hands are on her buttocks, holding her firm. Brittany's crying, but her pained gasps reach deaf ears. Her virgin body feels violated by the burning rod being thrust up into her. It feels as though her body is being torn from the inside. She hears the Khal's animalistic grunts from behind, feels her breasts grinding into her back.

It doesn't take long before Santana climaxes. She lets out a loud grunt and her hips move arrrhythmically before stilling, breathing hard. Brittany feels a fiery warmth blossom inside her. Her eyes are clenched shut.

They stay like that for a bit before the dark haired warrior pulls out, exhausted. She falls asleep almost immediately.

The blonde rolls away, turning towards the wall of the tent. Her loins are sticky with blood and semen. Brittany pulls the blankets over her body, eyes still shut, and continues to silently weep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The days pass much slower now, Brittany admits. The horde ride constantly, and she is not used to being on a horse for hours of the day. But there are women who take care of their Khaleesi, waiting on her hand and foot.

Khal Santana takes her almost every night in their tent. Sometimes she is taken so roughly she has to ride sidesaddle the next day. They don't speak, and Brittany learns not to cry.

But there are rather confusing moments in her life.

Brittany does not complain to her Lord, but she tells Ser Jorah Mormont of her troubles.

She begins to grow sick of dried horse meat and traveling rations. Mornings later there are fresh berries and cheese in their tent. Her hands become calloused and red from the riding, and sooner than later the slaves hurry in with caskets of mare's milk to bathe her aching hands and feet.

She sees Khal Santana speak to Ser Mormont. She has an inkling of an idea as to why. The slaves don't tell her anything, but Brittany feels the Khal's gaze on her more often now.

There is rabbit stew, bread, and cheese waiting in the tent for her. She told Ser Mormont that she had been craving rabbit that morning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam tells her to please Khal Santana. This would ensure that she will lend him her army to conquer the Seven Kingdoms and retake the throne. He tells a slave to teach Brittany the art of pleasure.

Doreah is beautiful, with long dark hair and caramel-colored eyes.

She straddles Brittany. Her eyes are light and her smile flirty. Brittany's eyes flicker away, unaccustomed to meeting someone's prolonged gaze.

"No, Khaleesi, you must look into her eyes always. Love comes in at the eyes." The slave leans closer.

"It is said that Arygenia of Liese could finish a man with nothing but her eyes."

Brittany blinks, confused. "Finish a man?"

Doreah links their fingers together, looking at her meaningfully.

"Oh." Brittany blushes, smiles shyly. The other woman continues with her story.

"It is said kings traveled across the world for a night with Arygenia. Kings sold their palaces, villages burned," she breathes. "They say a thousand men proposed to her and she refused them all."

"She sounds like an interesting woman," Brittany whispers. Her heart is hammering in her chest, gazing up at the exquisite woman in front of her. She swallows.

"I don't think that Santana will like it with me on top," the blonde murmurs moments later. Doreah brings her face close.

"You will _make_ her like it, Khaleesi." She's close enough that her breath tickles Brittany's face. "Men want something they've never had, and the Dothraki take women like a hound takes a bitch. And The Great Khal, while not a man, desires as one."

Something throbs between her legs. Brittany had never felt that before. Doreah feels it too, feels the desire wafting off the girl like fumes.

"Are you a slave, Khaleesi?" the slave asks.

Brittany shakes her head, looking away. Doreah leans back, raising the girl's hands and guiding them to her hips. She beings to rock gently, bringing their hips together.

"Then don't make love like a slave."

Brittany stares at her for a moment, and then surges upward, toppling the other woman gently and straddling her. Doreah lets out a gasp as she lands on the soft blankets.

"Very good, Khaleesi," she smiles. ""Out there she is the mighty Khal. But in here she belongs to you."

Brittany's eyes fill with want. She leans down, like Doreah had done before, looking into the girl's searching gaze. Then a hand brushes her hair and Brittany snaps back quickly, looming over the young slave in a low crouch.

"I ... I don't think this is the Dothraki way," she forces out. Brittany doesn't see herself topping Santana like this, the Khal letting herself be dominated. Doreah's reply makes her think.

"If she wanted the Dothraki way, then why did she marry you?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones belongs to HBO. Glee is a product of Fox. The book series, A Song of Ice and Fire, owes its copyrights to George R. R. Martin. I own nothing.

Author's Note: I was always kind of squicked that Martin made Daenerys, like, 14 when she married Drogo. I mean, obviously, women in the GoT world (and in ancient times) married as soon as they menstruated, but as someone who lives in contemporary society, it is my personal preference to make Brittany sixteen when she marries Santana. Sixteen is still young, yes, but I am significantly less squicked.

Also, all words in Italics means they are speaking Dothraki.

I might end this here. If I don't then the next chapter will most definitely be the end. Not a fan of sad endings, and if anyone's seen the season finale of Game of Thrones (brilliant, by the way), it's a very, very sad ending for Drogo.

Reviews are noted, welcomed, and humbly appreciated.

**Part Two**

Brittany waits for Santana in their warm bed as candles cast dark shadows about the tent.

The flap of the entrance flips open and Khal Santana steps in, glorious and nude. Brittany cannot keep her breath from catching. She has observed her Khal before, but tonight it is with the intimate knowledge of pleasure.

Doreah, while beautiful and light, is a frail and delicate, much like herself. Santana, on the other hand, is much more than beautiful. She is tan and taut and lean, her face striking in its beauty; she radiates quiet strength.

For the first time, Brittany is drawn to her wife. Not, that is not correct. She had been drawn to her once before, the day they first met at the gates of Illyrio's estate. It was also the day they married, the act of wedding lasting merely seconds.

Tonight is different.

She wonders if this is the product of Doreah's tutelage or a desire of her own making. Brittany finds that she no longer cares.

The exiled princess takes in a quiet breath, sitting up straighter on the bed as her Khal comes closer. She stares intently up at Santana, who stops for a moment before crawling into their bed. Her eyes are dilated with lust, with desire.

The dark haired warrior grasps her by the waist, intent on pushing Brittany onto her stomach like so many other times before. 'If she wanted the Dothraki way, why did she marry you?'

Why indeed.

Brittany stops her hands, turning around abruptly to face Santana.

"No."

It is obviously not what the Khal wants to hear. With a silent growl Brittany is flipped around again, this time harsher. Hands find purchase on her dress, intent on ripping it open. 'Don't make love like a slave, Khaleesi.'

Brittany Targaryen is last of the Targaryen line, Khaleesi of the Lord of the Dothraki. She is not a slave.

"No," she reiterates.

She turns around yet again, determined even as Santana grips her hand tightly, daring her to defy.

"_Tonight I will look upon your face." _Spoken in broken Dothraki. She wants to make sure Santana does not misunderstand.

She looks straight into dark eyes, not breaking contact. The Khal looks back, and for a moment, it looks as though her efforts will be thwarted.

Santana's gaze lingers, expression fierce, but she slowly brings Brittany's captive hand to her cheek. Her eyes close as the pale hand makes contact, face softening at the frail touch.

Brittany grasps her by the arm, turning them both to straddle the dark haired warrior. They don't break eye contact.

The blonde begins to rock, her uncertain hips moving lightly across tan skin. Her confidence grows as she feels her Khal's hands moving to rest on her hips, reaching up to caress her breasts. She does not know how Dothraki can be gentle, but Santana is.

Brittany feels the warrior's arousal against her thigh, hot and throbbing. Their eyes never waver from each other, even as Santana lurches up to hold her. She lets out a gasp. Her breaths are short, her heart hammering away in her chest. A pool of desire wells up from inside her loins, and Brittany continues to rock her hips.

Their mouths are close enough that Brittany can feel the Khal's breath on her tongue. They breathe each other in as dark hands lift her gently by the waist, and she allows herself to be entered. It does not hurt like the previous times. In fact, it feels like relief, like something had soothed the ache between her legs.

Santana's mouth descends upon her own; she tastes like heavy wine and unencumbered lust. Brittany has never been kissed like this before; they had never kissed before this night. Sam whispers cruel words and leaves acidic kisses upon her cheek. Doreah's kiss is flirty and soft, but never insistent, never passionate. Santana's kiss is glorious, tongue sweeping across red, swollen lips and into the hot cavern of her mouth. She delights in the feeling.

They rock against each other, and Santana is gentle. Brittany cries out as she climaxes for the first time, and Santana follows seconds later, holding her close. Brittany relishes the warm of their lovemaking, another first. She basks in the afterglow, and does not roll away.

It is tonight, not any other nights, that Brittany cherishes her firsts.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Things don't change. Not very much, anyway. Brittany still rides for days on end with the Dothraki women while Santana leads the horde. Sam still hungers for his crown, to the point of abuse, though Brittany protects him when he disrespects her in front of the tribe. She thinks the purple bruising around his neck from the tribesman's whip is punishment enough.

Brittany does speak to the slaves, who no longer seem to just tolerate their Khaleesi. They reply to her questions, and add comments of their own. They are friendly, and Brittany is thankful for people to talk to other than Ser Mormont and her acerbic brother. They teach her the Dothraki language, which she slowly learns.

Santana still takes her almost every night, but she is almost always willing. And Santana is always gentle.

Brittany finds trinkets on her pillows at times, when she wakes up and her Khal has already begun her day, but she is content to not question them. She learns there is no Dothraki word for 'thank you.'

Neither is there a Dothraki word for love.

Brittany slowly eases into the Dothraki culture. She learns to dress in their clothing, surprisingly free and unfettered compared to the constricting dresses of Westerian design. She learns to cook meals and overcome the strange accent when she speaks the language.

It is in the course of learning such things that Irri, in the process of braiding her hair, suddenly reaches for her breasts. Brittany gasps and smiles playfully.

"When was last time you bleed Khaleesi?" Irri asks, returning to her braiding. Brittany's eyes widen, a hand going to her belly. Her smile is slight and awed.

Pregnant. A child.

"_It is blessing from the Great Stallion,"_ Irri remarks, sharing a grin of her own.

A blessing indeed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

When the Khal is informed of the pregnancy, the reaction is as expected. The other Dothraki congratulate her, backs are slapped, indecent remarks about virility are made. Her eyes are shining with laughter and pride, and she smirks as the slaves bring casks of heavy wine to the firepit. They feast.

Back in their tent, with Brittany, her actions are different. She kisses Brittany, kisses that say more than the stunted Dothraki language can provide. When they make love, she is never gentler. She is proud, but not prideful; she smiles, but does not smirk.

Brittany learns to differentiate the Khal warrior from just Santana.

"_It is a boy." _

Brittany speaks softly, laying against Santana's strong torso as they bask in the afterglow of their lovemaking.

"_How you know?"_

"_I know." _Brittany replies. Santana's gaze is adoring, and Brittany's smile brings a smile to her lips. They kiss, tender and sweet, and share another smile.

"_Sleep well, moon of my life."_

Brittany sighs contently before drifting off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Wha- wha? Who the hell told you I owned Glee? Or Game of Thrones? Fool, you in the wrong place.

A/N: Right, so no excuses for not updating in months. Was planning to end it at 2 chapters but what the hell. Love your responses and therefore you get more. Before this week I had no idea what a beta is, and don't have one, so FYI all mistakes in syntax, grammar, and vocabulary are mine. Bear in mind that I usually crank these out in about 15 minutes, then the ADHD hits and I'm back to being distracted by funny things on Youtube. Also, Game of Thrones at Comic Con is quite possibly the best event of the summer. Simply cannot wait for Season 2!

All your reviews have been read and appreciated. Jolly good fun, all.

**Part Three**

Sam grows irritable. Increasingly so, and violence occurs in the wake of his nasty moods. Brittany has been told that he takes it out on everyone. He is like a corner animal these days, volatile and threatened, but by what she does not know.

She attempts to appease her brother with dinner, proud of her new culinary skills in Dothraki cuisine. But it seems as though Sam is not appreciative of her invitation when he barges into her tent, hand wrapped in the auburn locks of the slave girl he's dragging in by the scalp. The poor girl is tossed at Brittany's feel, blubbering apologies.

"You send this whore to give me commands! I should have sent you back her head!" he rages.

Brittany reassures the still sobbing girl, and tells Irri to tend to her. She is left alone with her angry brother.

"Why did you hit her?"

She does not know why Sam is so angry. He steps closer to her, face red with ire.

"How many times do I have to tell you, you do NOT command me!"

"I'm not commanding you. I just wanted to invite you to supper." Brittany's arms are spread, as if to reassure him that it was her only intention, that he be served a meal with her.

Sam looks around, as though confused. He spies the newly stitched clothes on the table and picks it up.

"What's this?"

"It's a gift. I had it made for you."

Sam's face contorts into something more like disgust.

"Dothraki rags? What, you're going to dress me now?"

Brittany is hurt, because she has the means to finally gift her brother with something and he throws it back in her face. Quite literally.

"This stinks of manure!" Brittany gasps as food is thrown at her now, food that she and the slave girls had heartily prepared. She feels her own pool of anger well up from within.

"Stop. Stop it." Tries to say it sternly, but Sam does not give her a chance to speak further.

"You would turn me into one of them wouldn't you. Next you'll want to braid my hair."

Their faces are inches apart now. His words are acidic, and she burns with righteous indignation. How dare he insult these people, whom she had once considered barbaric, who had taken her in as though she were their own? These people whom she had grown to esteem much more than how her own brother had seen her for the past 17 years.

Brittany carefully enunciates the next words, seething quietly. "You've no right to a braid, you've won no victories yet."

Sam's face contorts further with rage as he speaks.

"You do not talk back to me," he hisses before a slap is delivered to her cheek, drawing a startle yelp from Brittany and sending her sprawling to the ground. She barely has time to react before Sam is straddling her thighs, intent on punishing her further. Brittany tries to shield herself from his hands as he attacks her face, but he's stronger than her. He'd always been stronger than her.

"YOU, are a Horse Lord slut, and now you've woken the dragon!"

That is, until she spies one of the gold medallion necklaces that he had tossed to the ground in his petulant rant. She reaches for it and swings at Sam with a grunt, succeeding in knocking him off her.

Sam's face is a mixture of fury and disbelief. Brittany understands, because she has never done this before. Never defied her blood, once her only kin in the world. A hand goes to her belly.

Not anymore. Brittany is more than indignant. She is utterly outraged.

"I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. I am the wife of the Great Khal and I carry her son inside me. The next time you raise a hand to me is the last time you have hands."

The expression of shock and awe never quite leaves Sam's face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Brittany does not see her brother for weeks. Not until they arrive at Vaes Dothrak, the sacred and only city of the Dothraki people, where no blood is allowed to be shed. They are here for a reason.

There is a ceremony, a rite of passage for the pregnant Khaleesi, prophesies of her future son (for she knows she carries Santana's boy). It takes hours to prepare but feels like months.

She ingests a raw horse's heart amid a crowd of chanting Doththraki tribesmen and women, in front of the _dosh__khaleen_, the wisewoman. Khal Santana is seated among them, carefully watching her wife.

**"****_Rakh!_****_ Rakh!_****_ Rakh_****_ haj!_** (_A__ boy! __A__ boy! __A__ strong__ boy!)__"_

The chanting grows louder and louder, and Brittany fights the urge to vomit and she chews through blood and muscle and sinew. Her eyes never leave Santana, her Khal urging her on with proud approval in those dark eyes.

"_The__ prince __rides,__"_ the old shaman woman pronounces over the voices of the crowd_.__ "__I've __heard __the__ thunder__ of__ his __hooves. __Swift__ as__ the__ wind __he__ rides.__His__ enemies__ will__ cower __before__ him.__ And __their __wives__ will__ weep __tears__ of__ blood__!__"_

She will give Santana a son, a future Khal.

Brittany does not notice Sam in the background, eyes steely and hard as he contemplates Ser Mormont's translated words. Those blue eyes, so much like her own, darken with madness, and something akin to fear.

The chanting climaxes when the Brittany falls to her knees, arms bracing to balance her body as she lurches forward. All voices cease as they watch their Khaleesi struggle to hold in the last bites of the horse's heart. The Khal herself leans forward, anxious and worried.

Her Khaleesi struggles but rises on her knees. There is an audible gulp as she swallows the last morsel.

She is strong, Santana knows that, but here, now, she has never looked stronger. Brittany adores the look in Santana's eyes, her dark head nodding in admiration, approval, and love.

For if she has never been a queen or will never be a queen in this or any other life, Brittany is truly a queen today, under those dark, searing eyes.

The old crone speaks as the chanting begins anew.

"__The stallion who mounts the world! The stallion is Khal of Khals! He shall unite the people into a single Khalasar, all the people of the world will be his herd!___"_

Voices cease as Brittany rises to her feet, suddenly powerful, like a phoenix risen from the ashes that had once swallowed it whole. She turns, addressing the crowd.

"_A prince rides inside me. And he shall be called Rhaego!_"

She can see the dark haired Khal's nodding approval.

A prince named for her brother, and for Santana's father. He will be powerful and wise, and by all that is holy, he will be loved.

The Dothraki approve, now chanting the fetal prince's name loudly. Santana is silent as she rises from her seat, slowly walking to the dais before wrapping strong arms around her knees and lifting her up for the world to see.

Brittany Targaryen is her Khaleesi, and today she has made her proud. The crowd begins to chant a different tune this time.

"_Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego! Rhaego!"_

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Brittany should have been more aware of Sam's intentions. But nothing prepares her for this, the moment when Sam bursts into the festivities of their tent, when she is smiling and laughing and loving.

A feast interrupted; the Dothraki hate almost nothing more.

Sam speaks like a drunk man but is not drunk, in arrogance and hubris.

"Khal Santana, I'm here for the feast!"

The warrior in question responds to Ser Mormont, who turns to Sam to translate.

"There is a place for you, there in the back," he points.

The blonde boy's jaw clenches, and he turns back to Santana. "That is no place for a king," he states indignantly. The response he got was not what he expected.

"You ARE no king." Spoken in Westerian, rough, loud, and clear, with menacing eyes of a cobra waiting to strike.

Sam snaps. In one smooth motion, he draws his sword and turns, aiming at Ser Mormont. Brittany is rattled; she rises, along with everyone else as all eyes turn towards the weapon in Sam's hands.

"Sam please!" Brittany's voice draws his attention.

He turns toward his sister. "There she is." His tone is calculating, almost amused even.

Ser Jorah Mormont intervenes. "Put the sword down, or they'll kill us all!"

Sam smirks, waving the epee haphazardly around.

"They can't kill us. They can't shed blood in their sacred city..." He steps close to Brittany, his sword dangerously close to her face as Irri attempts to step between them. The Khaleesi pushes her behind herself instead, face to face with the petulant man she calls brother.

"...but I can."

Sam sword hovers over her belly, tip aimed at her womb and the child nestled within.

Santana's fist clenches hard enough to kill a horse with one blow, but she stays put. Dothraki laws do not allow bloodshed at Vaes Dothrak. If Sam takes a step closer, however, she would snap his neck with one hard twist.

Irri leans close to the Khal's ear as Sam smirks at them, ready to discuss his terms. Brittany looks up at him with a fearful expression, but curious at the same time.

"I want what I came for. I want the crown she promised me." Sam hears the slave girl softly translate to Santana.

"She bought you, but she never paid for you. Tell her I want what was bargained for or else I'm taking you back."

Sam is still smirking. Brittany takes a breath, more out of anger than fear; Santana leans forward, physically agitated.

"She can keep the baby. I'll cut it out and leave it for her."

Brittany's eyes never leave Sam's. They tear up, welling with deep, hopeless sadness, but they never stray from his face. In the periphery she hears Santana speak, her voice low and rough.

"**_Anha vazhak maan rek me zala. Anha vazhak maan firikhnharen hoshora ma mahrazhi aqovi affin mori atihi mae_****."**

The young Targaryen prince gestures with his head, asking "What's she saying?"

Brittany swallows before replying. "She says yes. You shall have a golden crown that men will tremble to behold."

And for a moment there, Sam reverts back to that little boy she had once loved. That selfish, petty child that she adored because she was his sister and he was still naïve with the ways of the world. They both were.

"It's all I wanted, you know... what was promised." Sam says with a boyish smile as he moves away, satisfied with the answer.

Santana finally rises, slowly walking over to Brittany, her dark, tanned fingers reaching for the subtle curve of Brittany's belly. Fingers rub gently in affirmation, her Khaleesi is fine, they're both fine.

Brittany and Santana stare at each other in silent communication, in reluctant resignation and resentment.

"_Seize__ him._"

Sam's eyes widen as he is strong-armed by two Dothraki warriors; they close in conjunction with a scream of agony as one of them break his right arm, snapping at the elbow at a grotesque angle.

"NO! I AM A DRAGON! I AM THE DRAGON! I WANT MY CROWN!"

They pay him no heed, however, and neither does Brittany as she watches Santana remove the golden belt around her waist. One of the Dothraki women empty out the pot of horse stew over the firepit.

Sam is forced on his knees as the Khal drops her belt into the pot, waiting for it to melt.

He is a blubbering mess now, foreseeing his punishment literally melting before his eyes.

"Britt-Britt, please!" he begs. "Britt, tell them. MAKE THEM!"

Ser Jorah Mormont is at the Khaleesi's side, telling her to look away. She refuses. This man – no, this boy still – he's disappointed her in so many ways. As a brother, as a man, as a leader. She loved him, and she knew he had some modicum of love for her, miniscule as it may be. But Sam could not remove the veil of hatred and greed in front of his eyes, and she would forever pity him. He had threatened his own blood: his sister, his nephew, the child growing in her womb. And despite how much she had loved him, love him still, there was no forgiveness for that.

Brittany's eyes never waver as Santana pours the melted pot of gold over Sam's head. His screams echo quietly until they fizzle out.

Golden crown indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Read all previous disclaimers.

A/N: So I was thinking I'd change some stuff around so the plot will diverge from the book. It'll be a surprise for future chapters. I think you all will like it. Also, HBO is making us wait 'til fucking April to get Season 2 of GoT. I just flipped over a fucking table.

Thanks for the reviews! Especially the long, detailed ones. You know who you are. All flattering me beyond my abilities. Was planning to put this up before Christmas, but I'll be honest, holiday food made me lazy as hell. Here's to a wonderful New Year!

Again, words in italics are conversations in Dothraki. I got no beta, so please pardon all mistakes.

**Part Four**

Brittany loves Santana's hair. Long, lustrous locks that run like ripples of ebon water down her back. Brittany combs through the tresses, like silk flowing through her fingers, as she kneels behind her khal, braiding the symbol of her victories and the pride of the khalasar.

Usually they speak little during this morning ritual, preferring a comfortable silence that often ends in Santana's strong arms circling her arms around her khaleesi's head, craning her neck to receive a kiss from behind. Today, however, Brittany brings up the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

_"The stallion who mounts the world has no need for iron chairs,"_ the dark haired warrior says in the guttural Dothraki tongue.

Brittany continues braiding as she responds, _"According to the prophecy, the stallion will ride to the ends of the earth."_

For as much as Brittany loves Santana, she remembers the honor of House Targaryen. Of her father Aerys, who died on his throne, throat slit by the one they now call Kingslayer. Her mother, who died birthing her at the Dragonstone, a swirling storm of unheard proportions raging outside as Brittany took her first breath and her mother her last. Of Rhaegar, her valiant brother as he was struck in the heart by the Usurper's warhammer at the Battle of the Trident, his wife raped and murdered and his infant children slaughtered at the Red Keep. Of Sam, whose greed and pride brought him a most distasteful but not undeserved death so very far away from home, a death she was compelled to play a hand in.

No, Brittany has no knowledge of the war, but she remembers its aftermath. Forced to flee to the Free Cities of the East, scrounging for food and clothing in a way that a prince and princess should never have to, the blonde girl remembers listening to Sam's stories and longing for the image of home. And now, after hearing the prophecies of the dosh khaleen, she wants her to son to know Westeros as her father and brothers did, to seek justice for the death of her family, to reclaim the throne that one belonged to Aegon the Conqueror and his dragon lineage.

But Santana does not think the same.

_"The earth ends at the black salt sea. No horse can cross the poison water."_

The Dothraki have never attempted to cross the Narrow Sea, but Brittany persists.

_"The earth does not end at the sea. There are many dirts beyond the sea..."_ Brittany pauses, hands stilling in thick, dark hair as Santana looks away, fixing her gaze on the pelts covering the floor. _"The dirt where I was born."_

Santana takes a deep breath, not quite contrite, but hearing the sadness in her khaleesi's voice makes her turn her dark head around.

_"Not dirts. Lands."_

Brittany's hands continue to weave through Santana's locks as she grins, rolling her eyes playfully as the little smirk on the khal's face.

_"Lands, yes."_ A short breath is taken before the exiled princess continues, _"There are thousands of ships in the free cities. Wooden horses that fly across the sea–"_

_"Let's speak no more of wooden horses and iron chairs."_

Brittany can tell that Santana is getting frustrated. She understands; the Dothraki heed the good omens for war, and right now the gods give them none.

_"It's not a chair. It's a... –"_ the khaleesi lets out a frustrated sigh herself, head searching for the Dothraki word for throne. She realizes there is none.

"...throne," she finishes. The khal lets out a tiny scoff. "Throne," she mimics.

Brittany smiles, finished with her braiding. _"A chair for a King to sit upon..."_ She lays the end of the warrior's braid on her shoulder, leaning close with a grin, _"...or a Queen."_

Santana seems more receptive to this, whether it be from Brittany's words or her proximity to the khal's taut body. She leans her head towards a blonde one for a moment, forehead against Brittany's smiling cheek, before turning around to face her on one knee.

_"A King does not need a chair to sit upon. He only needs a horse."_ With that, she leans in for a quick kiss, wrapping her lips around Brittany's briefly before exiting their tent.

She misses her khaleesi's sad, longing sigh.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The caravans of the Free Cities and beyond often stop in Vaes Dothrak, hundreds of merchants and thieves alike hawking their wares. The Dothraki do not have a money system, but they barter with horses and slaves the same way men barter with salt, silk, and seed. The Eastern Market is beautiful and intriguing, with wonderfully strange but delicious foods to be sampled and odd goods to marvel over. Oftentimes Brittany would spend her mornings there with her handmaids and four-guard khas, nibbling on the fire-spiced red noodles of Lys and Tyroshi fingerling pastries so flaky and golden they melted like butter in your mouth. They would visit the small sausage stall run by a shrunken elderly woman and the blonde would buy skewers of spicy grilled garlic sausages, passing some to Doreah and Irri and Jhiqui, even Rakharo who swears he hates them but would eat all the khaleesi gave him and belch loudly.

Ser Mormont, for his part, had excused himself as soon as they stepped foot into the bazaar, apparently needing to run his own errands, though Brittany did not mind.

The Eastern bazaar is everything Essos has to offer Brittany in one place, but it is the Western market that reminds her of home. Stalls with rich bolts of Myrish silks and lace go on for what seems like miles, interwoven with little shops made up in the backs of wagons displaying gleaming iron and steel armor; boiled leathers; swords long, short, bastard and all; dirks and daggers of poor bronze sold next to prized Valyrian steel. Brittany loves being able to speak in the language of Westeros, the Valyrian tongue of her ancestors, as she wanders from stall to stall, marveling at this and that as vendors of all creeds and colors attempt to charm the young khaleesi.

As they round the corner, Brittany's party run into a flamboyant wine merchant offering thimbles of his wares to passersby.

_"Sweet reds! I have sweet reds from Lys, Volantis, and the Arbor! Tyroshi pear brandy! Andalish sours! I have them here!"_

He spies Brittany from his perch atop wine crate, easily picking out her golden head from among her dark-haired companions.

_"A taste for the Khaleesi?"_ he asks, stepping off the crate as the blonde nears, a blood red bunch of roses in her hands. _"I have a sweet red from Dorne, my lady. One taste and you'll name your first child after me."_

Brittany laughs a tinkling laugh. "My son already has a name," she replies in fluent Valyrian, "but I'll try your summer wine, just a taste."

The merchant looks surprised, and for a moment something like recognition flashes across his face.

"My lady, you are from Westeros."

It is Doreah who speaks up. "You have the honor of addressing Brittany of the House Targaryen, Khaleesi of the Riding Men and Princess of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Princess," the man bows.

None of them notice Ser Jorah Mormont approaching slowly from a thin copse of trees.

"Rise. I'd still like to taste that wine."

The merchant's tone changes immediately. "That?" he huffs, tossing the cup aside. "Dornish swill! Not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, nectar of the gods." He turns back towards his wagon. "Let me give you a cask, a gift!"

"You honor me, sir," Brittany thanks.

"No, no, the honor is all mine." The man comes hurrying back with a small cask, making to hand it to the khaleesi, but is intercepted by Aggo, who grunts and steps protectively in front of her.

"Princess, there are many in your homeland who pray for your return." The merchant turns his attention back to Brittany. She smiles at him earnestly.

"I hope to return your kindness someday."

They are interrupted by the voice of Ser Mormont.

"Aggo, put down that cask." He sidles up to the blonde-haired girl and regards the merchant with sharp eyes. His cool demeanor sparks a nervous anxiety in Brittany.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

"I have a thirst. Open it."

Aggo obeys, thrusting the cask at the merchant. The merchant, Brittany observes, is getting nervous.

"This wine is for the khaleesi, it's not for the likes of you."

"Open it," Mormont implores, eyes boring into him. The man obeys as Brittany and her party watches.

"Now pour."

"It would be a crime to drink a wine this rich without at least giving it time to breath," the bearded vendor states, the slight shake in his voice almost undetectable.

But Brittany notices. "Do as he says," she orders. He sighs.

"As the princess commands..."

He pours, bringing the cup to offer Ser Mormont, who exchanges a short glance with his khaleesi.

The knight brings the cup to his lips, sniffing and swirling the liquid before offering it back.

"You first."

The merchant is hesitant, his beady eyes widening slightly in fear. "Me?" he chuckles nervously. "I'm afraid I am not worthy of a vintage. Besides, it is a poor wine merchant who drinks his own wares in front of honored–"

Brittany cuts him off, blue eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"You will drink."

The man finally concedes, bringing the cup to his lips for a split second before dropping it suddenly, grabbing at the forgotten cask of wine beside him. He throws it at Aggo, hoping for a diversion as he pushes past Brittany roughly. If Ser Mormont had not caught her, she would be flat on her back.

The wine merchant does not make it far before Rakharo's whip wraps around his neck and he is yanked onto his back. Brittany, her khas, and Ser Mormont push past, noting with disdain the foul sight of his pants staining with urine.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What will they do to him?" the Brittany asks, treading lightly across the dirt of the tent, Ser Mormont beside her. The false merchant who had tried to poison her is hogtied to the central mast of the tent amid the fire pit as they circle the area. His face is bloody and raw, a tight noose around his neck preventing him from breathing well.

"When the khalasar rides he'll be leashed to a saddle and forced to run behind the horses for as long as he can," the knight replies.

"And when he falls?"

"...I saw a man last nine miles once."

There is a pause before Brittany speaks. "King Robert still wants me dead."

"This poisoner is the first, he won't be the last."

"I thought he'd leave me alone, now that my brother is gone." Brittany is scared, not so much for herself but for her child, a babe yet to be born. She has never faced the mortal fear for her own life before, only hearing the stories of murderous sellswords and assassins from Sam. But if Robert Baratheon was able to employ a poisoner from across the Narrow Sea...

Her hand rests upon the soft curve of her belly as Rhaego moves restlessly in her womb. Brittany wishes she could touch him, soothe him somehow, but the boy is fluttering about in the way the child of a dragon and stallion only could.

Ser Mormont's voice breaks her out of her morbid thoughts.

"He will never leave you alone. If you ride to darkest Asshai, his assassins will follow you. If you sail all the way to the Basilisk Isles his spies will tell him. He will never abandon the hunt," he says darkly. "You're a Targaryen, the last Targaryen. Your son will have Targaryen blood with forty thousand riders behind him."

Brittany's eyes turn a steely color, blue and hard, as if willing the fire in front of them to turn to ice.

"He will not have my son."

Jorah Mormont turns to her. "He will not have you either, Khaleesi."

Their conversation is cut short as the cloth flap of the tent opens to admit the bloodriders, with Qotho holding the horsehide door for Santana to step in. The tent slowly fills with people, warriors and witch women alike.

Brittany is immediately relieved, her body letting out a breath she did not know she was holding. Santana's eyes flicker to her form instantly, raking over her body, making sure she is safe before she stops right in front of the man strapped to the pole in the middle of the tent.

The Khal's gaze is fierce and intimidating. Here is the Khal of khals, and Brittany is shown further proof of how such a small person is able to wield the authority of kings over thousands of men twice her size.

The brunette steps close to the poisoner, not saying a word, and listens to his fearful whimpers before reaching to the right. Aggo hands his Khal a torch that she upends and spears into the middle of the fire pit, flames leaping into the air.

_"Moon of my life."_

Santana reaches for Brittany's face, cradling it softly in her rough, sword-blistered hands. _"Are you hurt?"_ Her voice is low and gentle.

Brittany smiles, relishing in her Khal's touch as she wraps her arms around the warrior's waist. She shakes her head softly, eyes tearing the words she could not say.

Santana presses a long, beautiful kiss to her forehead, breathing in the ever-sensual musk of her golden hair and letting out a relieved sigh.

The look they share once Santana is done is one of profound devotion and passionate love.

Her hands still cradling the softness of Brittany's cheeks, Santana turns to Ser Mormont.

_"Jorah the Andal, I heard what you did. Choose any horse you wish, it is yours."_ She lays a hand on the taller man's shoulder, a sign of respect, before leaning in and speaking loudly in his ear, _"I make this gift to you."_

With that, the Khal lets him go and turns again to the moon of her life. Her hands reach for Brittany's slowly burgeoning waist, still trim but for the small babe growing within. The look of utter adoration has yet to leave Brittany's eyes.

_"And to my son, the stallion who will mount the world, I will also pledge a gift,"_ she states hotly, fiery amber eyes meeting Brittany's firmly before turn towards to address the crowd.

_"I will give him the iron chair that his mother's father sat upon,"_ Santana says as she paces around the fire.

_"I will give him Seven Kingdoms!"_

_"I, Santana, will do this,"_ she swears in front of Brittany.

_"I will take my Khalasar west to where the world ends and ride wooden horses across the black salt water as no Khal has done before!"_ The crowd lets out a cheer as their Khal speaks. They too are slighted by the attack on their khaleesi. They too are hungry for battle.

_"I will kill the men in iron suits!"_ Santana shouts in the face of their captive, spittle flying as she rages, _"And tear down their stone houses!"_

Another roar is heard from the crowd as their Khal stomps around the fire pit, angry and vengeful.

Brittany watches quietly, her breathing erratic and hopeful. Her promised dreams are going to be fulfilled by the love of her life, her sun and stars. There are no words to describe how passionate, and grateful, and loved Brittany feels as she stands there; she is khaleesi of a tribe of people who have taken her in as their own, adored by their Khal and blessed by their gods with a son. Brittany wonders how she had gotten so lucky.

_"I will enslave their people, and bring their broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak!"_ Santana beats her chest strongly, her warriors doing the same.

_"This I vow, I, Santana, child of Bharbo! I swear before the Mother of Mountains as the stars look down in witness! As the stars look down in witness!_

Santana's brown orbs lock with Brittany's passionate gaze, fire in her eyes. The crowd roars.


End file.
